scooter jerky

Woke up this morning, stumbled out to the driveway to move my scooter for the first time since I arrived. Poor, lonely scooter you say? Indeed. But I need to get a handle on directions and such before venturing out and, really, I haven’t had the need. The fun stuff is downtown (biking distance), the practical stuff is down the highway. We took Ari’s car to our closest grocery store the other day – the place must be 10 miles away, at least. We also rented a movie on the same trip – from Blockbuster, our only option. Netflix will be our friend.
But about the scooter. I release the cable lock, hand it to Ari, and put the key in the ignition, only to find it strangely yielding. I wriggle the key a bit, but can’t turn it. I yank it out and inspect it, and find something that I identify, out loud, as “salt or something.” Of course, I figure this to be a moving casualty – lord knows tons of stuff got covered in spilled detergent, and salt could have leaked, too. I keep fiddling with the key, and I manage to get the scooter going, but not before I notice a pile of salt on my neighbor’s lawn, which begins just at the edge of our cement driveway. I saw said elderly neighbor's daughter out there the other day, presumably weeding and...scaring off slugs? And punks with motorcycles, who chain their machine to her mother's fence? (I did ask, for the record.) I’m feeling all Nancy Drew about this, but have no real evidence that my neighbor salted my scooter, nor do I have a motive. I do, however, have a hell of a time getting the key in or out now, and most likely will have to visit a mechanic (and really, I hate having to put my child in foreign hands).